Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  Tonight, he was expecting some of each.

  * * *

  "We've got a fix on their location."

  Leo Turrin faced the Phoenix SAC, leaning closer to hear him over the sound of throbbing engines. "Where?"

  "Due west of Flagstaff, twenty-seven miles, a little access road cuts off I-40 to the south. It winds around a couple miles, then dead-ends at a burned-out mining village. Not your classic ghost town but it'll do. They used to call it Oresville. Wishful thinking, I suppose."

  "We're clear on this?" he asked.

  The SAC allowed himself a frown. "You mean, am I convinced your boys are in there? I have no idea. Don Cipriano's people think so, or they wouldn't waste their time. I don't know what they're going by, or where they get their information."

  Turrin pondered those unanswered questions. How the hell could Pratt and Cipriano's people still keep track of their intended prey, despite the change in cars? Unless…

  He leaned back toward the SAC and asked, "What kind of receivers have we got on board?"

  "The basics — CB, shortwave, cellular. You need to call somebody?"

  Turrin shook his head. "Have you got anything for picking up a homing signal?"

  "Trackers? Sure, but you don't think…"

  "I can't supply a frequency."

  "It doesn't matter. Once we're in range we can start to sweep and lock on any signal in the neighborhood."

  "What range?"

  "Depending on the homer, two, three miles."

  "Let's do it."

  "Are you working on a hunch?"

  "What else?"

  The G-man frowned. "Suppose we're right on top of them, and still no signal?"

  "Then we do our thing, regardless," Leo answered. "Nothing ventured…"

  "Nothing gained, I know. Okay." He gave instructions to the pilot and received a clipped affirmative. "We can't begin the sweep for ten or fifteen minutes. Still not close enough."

  "I'll take what I can get," the man from Justice replied, and hoped that it would come to more than bodies on slab.

  * * *

  Carlos Aguire knew it was time to make his move when the three men sat down to eat their simple evening meal. His escorts still wore pistols, but their automatic weapons had been laid aside to free their hands for paper plates and plastic forks. It would be relatively simple, he decided, and if either man tried to reach a gun…

  They wouldn't try to kill him instantly. Their job was to deliver a living witness, more or less intact, to federal officers in California. He was certain they would fire in self-defense, but first would come negotiations, an attempt to reason with him and persuade him to surrender. By the time they realized that it was hopeless he'd have their guns and car keys… or he would have killed them where they sat.

  Pretending he'd bitten into something hard, Aguire set his plate down on the floor, cursing and probing his back teeth with the index finger of his left hand, using the diversion to slide the right behind his back. He had the pistol now, and raised it with a flourish, thumbing back the hammer.

  "Please don't make me kill you," he said.

  After an initial flicker, neither man displayed surprise.

  "You're making a mistake." Bolan told him.

  "Going to Los Angeles would be a worse mistake, I think. The car keys."

  "Think about it," Johnny advised. "Alone, you've got no cover whatsoever."

  "I am touched by your concern. Unfortunately it does not extend beyond your mission. If we live to reach Los Angeles, what do you think will happen to me then?"

  "You'll be protected," Bolan replied, "by the DEA. I won't pretend they love you, but they need your testimony for a lock on Vos. They're not about to let his people reach you."

  "And when I am finished? When the trial is done?"

  "The federal witness program, I imagine. They can build a new identity — new face, if necessary — and install you in a brand-new life."

  Aguire laughed out loud. "Your faith is touching. Do you trust the DEA so much? Are you prepared "to place your whole life in their hands?"

  "I'd say we've done exactly that."

  "And what happened? Is it still not clear to you that you have been betrayed?"

  "We're coping," Bolan said. "And I can guarantee a shake-up when we hit Los Angeles."

  "Too late," Aguire snapped. "I was a fool to deal with Pratt, from the beginning. It is clear, now. All his promises are hollow, meaningless. The government he serves has no intention of destroying Vos."

  "So why arrest him in the first place?" Johnny inquired.

  "A sideshow. After all the talk about 'war on drugs, the government must seem to move against its 'enemies. In fact, if Vos and others like him were eliminated, your police would have to manufacture their replacements. Who will pay the graft, if they are gone? How will appropriations be secured without a 'menace' lurking in the shadows?"

  "I won't try to tell you that we haven't got some problems," Bolan admitted. "We have a line on links inside the Administration. That's why we were selected as your escorts, to provide some distance."

  "No," Aguire said, "you were selected as a human sacrifice. When I am killed, it must be said that agents tried to save me, gave their lives in the line of duty. You are both courageous men, muy macho, but you never really had a chance. And I must leave you now."

  "Then, I suppose," the Executioner growled, "you'd better use that gun."

  It was a gamble, but Aguire hesitated, glancing back and forth from one man to the other, aiming at a point between them. He rose without removing his attention from the two of them, and Bolan concentrated on finding the kind of a diversion it would take for one of them to reach him, twist the automatic from his grasp. The risks were great. At point-blank range, a man-sized target was difficult to miss.

  Aguire seemed reluctant to shoot them — otherwise he would have fired at once, without a warning — but reluctance didn't translate into inability. If pressed, he'd respond like any other cornered animal. It was impossible for Bolan to predict which way the gun might turn. He hated gambling with his brother's life, but neither could he simply let Aguire walk. His duty made the easy route impassable, and left him with a narrow range of options.

  "What about the booby traps?" he asked. "You don't know where they are. If you go blundering around outside, you'll kill yourself before Vos has the chance."

  Aguire pondered that and swiftly came to a decision. "You will lead the way," he said, a waggle of the automatic indicating both of them at once. "But first, the car keys."

  Had Aguire seen him drop them into his outside pocket? Bolan wondered. Could he reach the 93-R in its shoulder rigging, draw and fire before the nervous Cuban shot them both? At such a range, and under pressure, could he wing Aguire, make him drop his gun without inflicting major damage?

  Bolan wasted no time wondering about the pistol. Obviously Carlos had retrieved it from a member of the biker hit team, at some point.

  The warrior had no method of communicating with his brother, but he knew that Johnny would back his play, however it went down. They stood together, and he only hoped they wouldn't die that way.

  "The keys," Aguire repeated, his tone insistent.

  Bolan set his paper plate on the floor. His hand was sliding toward his shoulder harness, eyes locked on Aguire's gun, when suddenly he froze — a sound outside, from somewhere overhead.

  In spite of distance and the intervening floors above them, Bolan recognized the chopping noise of a helicopter's engine. At a glance, he saw that Johnny heard it, too.

  "Sounds like company," Bolan said. Regardless of the threat — or lack of one — he could make use of the diversion.

  Aguire became aware of the sound, as well. His pistol wavered slightly, and he cast a quick glance toward the ceiling.

  "It's a helicopter," Bolan told him. "Circling, by the sound. I'm not expecting visitors. Are you?"

  Aguire glared at him but didn't answer.

  "Did you want to sh
oot us now," the soldier asked, "or shall we wait to see who's dropping in?"

  A new sound was recognizable as traffic on the road outside, a blend of tires on gravel and familiar engine noise.

  "You're out of time," he said. "Which is it?"

  "I will keep the gun," Aguire snapped.

  "You'll need it," Bolan told him, reaching out to heft his M-16.

  * * *

  The driver of the lead car killed his lights as the caravan approached the mining town, and for a heartbeat Pratt lost sight of his support troops in the darkness. They were circling wide, perhaps two hundred feet above the small, deserted settlement, but Felix knew their engine noise might have warned Aguire's escorts. If they hadn't, the arrival of four limousines would do the trick, and he imagined Hal Brognola's soldiers, crouching in the darkness with their weapons, waiting for the enemy to show himself.

  The square receiver mounted in the cockpit was emitting steady signals, telling him that they were right on target, but the bleeping sound wouldn't pinpoint his prey. They could be homing on the vehicle, for all Pratt knew. Aguire and his escorts could have scattered, into the shadows, digging in to make their final stand.

  And this would be the end of it. It had to be. Pratt's life and all his future hopes were riding on the line with this one play. A fumble now would finish him.

  The pilot took them down, extinguishing his running lights for safety's sake, before they touched down in the shadow of an ancient ore refinery. The place was small by modern standards, but it offered countless hiding places for Aguire and the others, not to mention the array of other buildings that stood on both sides of the street.

  All remained silent as the gunners left their vehicles and fanned out. Pratt's palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his trousers, fishing one hand underneath his jacket to retrieve his weapon. He felt better with the gun in his fist, more able to defend himself, but they were still exposed on every side, like targets in a shooting gallery.

  "Where are they, dammit?"

  Solly's smile carved deeper shadows in his craggy face. "Relax. We'll find them."

  "Right."

  He watched as Cipriano's strike force broke up into flying squads, the gunners communicating by means of hand signals. Several jogged toward the refinery, the rest splitting up with four men dispatched to cover each of the town's half dozen buildings, three guns playing center field, remaining with the cars. The gunners who had flown with Pratt and Solly stayed beside them now, quite comfortable in their role as bodyguards.

  Pratt watched the flying squads begin to subdivide again, two soldiers peeling off from each quartet and circling to watch their target buildings from the rear. It spread their forces thin, but Pratt remembered that his targets were outnumbered more than twelve to one. No matter how you sliced it, those were winning odds.

  The first explosion, when it came, took Felix Pratt completely by surprise. A pair of Cipriano's men were entering a combination bar and mess hall, one man pushing through the door while his companion covered, and the blast enveloped both of them. The pointman simply disappeared, a stage magician vanishing in smoke and thunder, while his backup took their shrapnel at a range of less that fifteen feet. His tattered body sailed backward and landed in the middle of the dusty street.

  A second blast erupted so close behind the first that Pratt initially mistook it for an echo. Cries of agony destroyed that futile hope — the first two gunners had gone down without a whimper — and he realized that there had been another booby trap in back of the saloon.

  Time froze, with Cipriano's gunmen rooted in their places, torn between their orders to advance and knowledge that they might be blown to pieces if they moved. Before their crew chief had an opportunity to win back the initiative, the first car in their lineup suddenly erupted into rolling flames, another thunderclap reverberating from the hills around them.

  "Hit the bastards!" Solly bawled. "What are you waiting for?"

  They were breaking for the cover of the old refinery, Pratt pacing Solly, when the gunners opened up and hell broke loose in Oresville.

  * * *

  Bolan was in place and waiting when the first grenade exploded, somewhere to his right. It sounded like the dining hall, but he was only interested in the body count. They were confronting lethal odds, and every hostile gunner they eliminated was another step toward survival.

  At the second blast, somewhere behind the line of buildings, Bolan raised his weapon, and knocked out a milky windowpane. Before the nearest shooters could react, he pumped a 40 mm high-explosive round into the nearest limousine, its detonation spewing arcs of burning fuel in all directions, spreading incandescent puddles in the middle of the street.

  The blast had knocked two gunners off their feet, though neither man was badly injured. Bolan caught one as the guy staggered to his feet, a short burst from the M-16 reducing him to so much wasted flesh and rumpled clothing in the shadow of the leaping bonfire. Number two had spotted the warrior, and the guy was quick enough to trigger off a probing burst as he retreated, scrambling backward for the cover of the cars.

  The gunners were unloading on him now from every direction, their bullets gnawing through the woodwork, driving Bolan back. He crawled on his belly through the dust and broken glass, retreating as a steady stream of fire reduced the hotel lobby to a shambles.

  They had scored first blood, at least, and Johnny should be in position now, prepared to lead the hounds away. It was a risky game, this desperate version of divide and conquer, but they had been stripped of options. Any gains from that point on would be a victory of sorts, but he was interested in coming out the other side alive, together with his brother and their charge.

  The Executioner was up and running as he cleared the lobby, moving toward the exit they had left unlocked in the event of an emergency. Behind him, concentrated fire was riddling the hotel lobby, chewing up the stairs and etching abstract patterns on the walls.

  He was a dozen paces from the door when it swung open and a pair of gunners crossed the threshold in a rush, two automatic weapons blazing as they came. Instinctively the Executioner squeezed off a 40 mm HE round at point-blank range, its detonation striking like a fist that hurled him backward into a clapboard wall.

  19

  Johnny was already in position when the first explosion rocked the street. A small head start was all he needed as he broke from the rear of the hotel and headed north toward the general store. There hadn't been enough grenades to booby-trap each building in the town, so the store had been unprotected until Johnny settled in.

  He had a clear shot at the gunners moving toward the store, and saw two of them peel off to watch the rear, while others fanned out to cover every building on the street. He'd have only moments, from the time he dropped the two in front, until their seconds crashed the back door, but there should be enough, if he…

  The ripping sound of the grenade was shocking in the silence of the ghost town, and was followed instantly by another as gunners at the back door got an unexpected bonus for their efforts. His chosen targets crouched, then backed away, exchanging glances as they eyed the door. He almost heard the cogwheels turning in their minds. Were all the buildings wired? If not, which ones?

  Downrange one of the limos tore apart in fire and thunder, bouncing on its springs as an explosion turned it into a heap of twisted junk. Johnny took it as his cue and triggered two short bursts. The front-door gunners folded like a pair of straw men as the 5.56 mm tumblers crackled in on target. They were down and out before the Executioner started firing up the street, and general chaos suddenly erupted.

  Orders were forgotten as the gunners broke for cover, pumping lead at shadows in a bid to save themselves. Johnny loosed a burst at random, then heard the missing second-stringers crashing in behind him, homing on the sound of gunfire inside the store.

  They came in like commandos, shooting from the hip and ventilating everything except their target. Johnny rose to meet them from behind the protec
tion of the heavy wooden checkout counter, pumping three rounds through a stocky gunner's chest before the guy had time to get to cover.

  Number two was quicker off the mark, but still not quick enough to save himself. He had an Ingram submachine gun up and tracking when the younger Bolan caught him with a rising burst and zippered him from crotch to throat. The impact hurled him backward, and his body raised a dust cloud as it hit the floor with a resounding thud.

  Outside, a couple of the gunners had begun to fire in Johnny's general direction, blasting through the door and windows. He kept his head down as he raced from the store, feeding the carbine a new magazine on the run.

  The war was waiting for him, and he didn't intend to be pinned down, immobilized while his brother was out there fighting for his life.

  * * *

  The shock wave emptied Bolan's lungs, but he was on his feet again in a second. One of the hardmen had absorbed the blast full-force, and he was obviously dead, his flesh and clothing torn by shrapnel, smoking from the heat of the explosion. His partner lay twenty feet away, battered, dazed, and bleeding, but alive.

  The Executioner swept past him, squeezing off a round between the glassy eyes to guarantee that the guy wouldn't be a hostile gun at his back. How many left? The warrior had no clear idea, but realized he, Aguire and Johnny were heavily outnumbered.

  The night welcomed Bolan like a kindred spirit. He'd taken time to buckle on the Desert Eagle.44, and with the mini-Uzi slung across one shoulder, extra magazines and charges for the launcher worn in bandoliers across his chest, he felt prepared to meet the enemy.

  A bitter haze of smoke still marked the spot where gunmen had attempted to invade the dining hall, caught short by Johnny's booby trap. One of the bodies lay spread-eagled in the ally, but Bolan couldn't see the other, and he wondered if the guy had managed to escape somehow or simply dragged himself away to lick his wounds.

  It made no difference at the moment, as he moved in the direction of the ore refinery, where he'd seen the helicopter land. The airborne brains behind the raid would be there, or close by, and Bolan hoped that he might take the man alive for quick interrogation. Failing that, the leader's death might have some effect on his opponents. At the very least it had to hurt morale, and he would take whatever he could get, with raw survival riding on the line.